I sit with my father, who is hanging on to frustration at a ******* on the pass.
my mother is across from me, baiting conversation.
The art museum today has bare walls, and their halls only display what my father calls, the place your mind is left where at yourself is all you find to stare, bet that *******-whole reeks to bare

*******.



I wish I could get a space, have it set up with a bed, tons of blankets, tons of lights, tons of curtains, and random pieces of wood. And one side of the wood is painted in a grey-purple, and I have indigo chalk. And it's a living exhibition of narcolepsy. And i just rearrange constantly, and write poems on the undersides of the wood, which I use to fashion ever-changing furniture.